


Dog Day

by Nyssa



Series: Bay City Border Collie [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Sweet Revenge, the guys' household expands by one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Schmoop Bingo prompt "Shopping." First in the Bay City Border Collie series.

“You can tell a lot about dogs just by looking,” Starsky said.

He beckoned Hutch closer to the stacks of cages and pointed to one on the top row. “Now, see, that one, he’s got an attitude. He’s saying, _Don’t mess with me, mister, or I’ll piddle on your Adidas_. He’s one tough son of a bitch.”

Hutch peered at the German Shepherd puppy, who growled softly and scratched at the bars of its cage. “I think he’s a she, Starsk.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, I don’t want a German Shepherd. Or a Doberman.” Starsky nodded at the slick, black and tan pup asleep in the next cage, its ears taped into pointy cone shapes. “Too scary. You’d get people running away from you when you walked it down the street.”

Hutch laid a hand on the small of Starsky’s back. “That why we never applied to join the K-9 unit?”

“That, and I was afraid you’d find a new best friend.” He flashed Hutch a quick grin. “I’m more secure now.”

Hutch smiled.

Starsky moved down the row of cages, stepping around a young couple cooing over a tiny Pomeranian. “I want a friendly dog that smiles a lot, like a Beagle, or a Golden Retriever, or – what was that dog Nixon had?”

“Irish Setter. Starsk, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Buying a dog from a pet shop, I mean.”

Starsky knelt in front of a cage and made smacking sounds with his lips. The silky-haired puppy within cocked its head inquisitively.

Hutch joined Starsky, who was now tapping the glass in front of the puppy. The pup’s head tilted in the opposite direction.

“Pet shop dogs don’t have very good reputations, you know. They’re mass-produced, and you don’t know where they come from, and you don’t get to see the parents…. ”

Starsky didn’t appear to be listening. He leaned toward the pup. “Hey, pretty puppy,” he said softly. “Hey, baby. Wanna come home with us?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Much more of this, and I’ll have to take you in for contributing to the delinquency of a Cocker Spaniel.”

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

Hutch rose quickly, Starsky with a bit more care. A young woman wearing a green smock with “World O’ Pets” printed on it smiled brightly at them.

“I can take this little guy out of the cage and let you hold him, if you’d like.”

Before Hutch could veto the idea, Starsky did it for him. “Uh, no, no thanks. We were just looking, really.” He gifted the girl with a charming smile. “Maybe next time.”

The girl smiled back, blushing slightly. “Please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” she said, and after a lingering look into Starsky’s eyes, she turned away.

Hutch stared at Starsky. “You _don’t_ want to hold the puppy?”

Starsky shrugged. “If I did that, I’d buy him, and you’re probably right about pet stores. There’s no hurry. I got lots of free time to shop around, right?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said softly. He raised a hand to the back of Starsky’s head and stroked the curls there. He didn’t care anymore if people saw.

“We’ll keep looking,” he said, as he and Starsky made their way around a towering stack of dog beds to the exit. “We’ll find one.”

 

*****

 

The best thing about the house was that he had space for a real darkroom.

Well, no. The best thing about the house was that it belonged to him and Hutch, that both their names were on the paperwork, that the master bedroom was where they slept together. But it was great to have a darkroom. It was necessary now that his photography hobby was a job. Well, kind of a job. It brought in a little money, to go with his disability payments and his veterans benefits and his pension, and he’d had some business cards printed up to let the world know that David Starsky was available for weddings, parties, bar and bat mitzvahs, that kind of thing. No big deal, really, but a guy had to do something, and it really helped if it was something he loved. When he was busy with his camera, he didn’t think about the past.

And now the house would have another advantage. Dogs always did better in a house with a yard than in a cramped apartment, didn’t they?

Hutch came home muttering and mumbling and swearing under his breath. From his position on the couch, Starsky could hear his partner outside the door, fumbling with his key, and then a louder “Goddammit!” as the key apparently slipped out of his hand. Starsky smiled, and turned a page of his newspaper. Hutch hated locked doors, but after Gunther, he’d made Starsky promise never to leave their door _un_ locked.

Hutch stepped inside, slammed the door behind him, and hurled his jacket at the nearest chair, where it slid off and settled on the floor.

“Hello, Mary Sunshine,” Starsky said, stretching out more comfortably on the couch. “Beautiful day in the neighborhood, huh?”

Hutch leveled a finger at him. “Our district attorney,” he said, “is a fucking idiot.”

Starsky widened his eyes. “And this is _my_ fault?”

Hutch stalked into the kitchen, returning with two bottles of beer. He wouldn’t drink Coors anymore, not since he’d read in the _Advocate_ that the company had “antigay hiring policies.” Which meant Starsky didn’t get to drink it either, of course. Starsky sat up, accepting the Bud Hutch held out to him with only a small sigh of resignation.

Hutch took a long swallow. “We’ve got prints, fibers, eyewitness testimony. He won’t file.” Hutch gestured violently with the bottle. “What the hell does he want, a sworn confession?”

“Hey! You’re gonna splash that shit – that _stuff_ all over the house.” Starsky caught Hutch’s arm and lowered it. “I take it we’re talkin’ about the McGuire case?”

Hutch closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, we’re talking about the McGuire case. The goddamn McGuire case.” His voice softened wistfully. “I wish you were with me, Starsk. I don’t think the D.A. could stand up to both of us.”

 _Babe, I wish I was with you every minute of every day_. “If he can stand up to Lieutenant Kenneth Hutchinson, the man who brought James Gunther down, I don’t think he’d be real impressed by little Davey Starsky.”

Hutch sighed a long sigh. He took Starsky’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I miss you,” he said, almost in a whisper.

But Starsky couldn’t go there, he just couldn’t, and he couldn’t let Hutch do it, either.

“Hey,” he said. He drew his hand away and rattled the newspaper spread out on the coffee table in front of them. “I’ve been looking. I got three possibles so far.”

Hutch blinked at him. “Possibles?”

Starsky leaned over the paper. “See? I circled ‘em.” He ran a finger down the column headed “Dogs for Sale,” and read aloud. “Old English Sheepdogs, six weeks, male and female, $300. Boston Terriers, eight weeks, champion bloodlines, $500. Basset Hounds, purebred, males $250, females $350.” He paused a moment. “Dunno why the females are higher. Do they make better pets?”

Hutch shook his head slowly. “Basset Hounds? I thought you wanted a dog that smiled a lot.”

Starsky shrugged. “If it lives with us, it’ll smile a lot, ‘cause we’ll be so good to it. Hey, here’s another good one.”

Hutch followed Starsky’s pointing finger. “What’s a Pharaoh Hound?”

Starsky reached for the library book on the end table – _Dogs: An Illustrated Guide to Over One Hundred Breeds_ – and flipped through it impatiently. “Papillon…Pekingese…Pharaoh Hound. Originated in ancient Egypt. Twenty-one to twenty-five inches tall, forty to sixty pounds. The only breed known to blush when emotional.”

Hutch leered at him. “Guess we’d have to keep it out of the bedroom. Wouldn’t want to embarrass the poor dog.”

Starsky smiled, and circled the Pharaoh Hound ad. “I think it sounds great. Who wouldn’t want an ancient Egyptian dog around the house?”

“Starsk, does it seem to you that we’re not making much headway with this dog hunt?”

“Sure we are. I’ve learned how to spell Bouvier des Flandres, and what a Rhodesian Ridgeback hunts, and – ”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, look at this.” Hutch jabbed a finger at the newspaper ads. “You’re all over the map here. You’ve got big dogs, little dogs, long-haired dogs, short-haired dogs, dogs from Boston, dogs from ancient Egypt…. There’s no organization, Starsk, and you have to be organized. You’ve got to narrow this down. You’ve got to decide what you really want.”

Starsky kissed him, decisively.

When they drew apart, Hutch’s cheeks wore a warm flush. He licked his lips. “Besides that, I mean.”

Starsky said, “I’ve been here all day, alone, developing film and thinking about Irish Water Spaniels, and you come home all full of righteous anger and ordering me to get organized.” He trailed an insinuating hand up Hutch’s thigh, and let his tone drop to a throaty murmur. “You know I love it when you get commanding.”

He watched with satisfaction as the remaining tension drained from Hutch’s eyes, chased away by rising desire. Clearly, Hutch was rapidly forgetting about the McGuire case and idiot district attorneys.

“C’mere, then,” Hutch said, with a slow smile. “I’ll tell you just what to do.”

With a matching smile, Starsky went.

“Irish Water Spaniels?” Hutch whispered, and nipped gently at Starsky’s earlobe.

Starsky shivered. “Curly hair. Medium-sized. Good watchdog.”

“Keep talking, baby.”

 

*****

 

Hutch sighed and pushed aside yet another file folder. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. The damn job didn’t seem to be anything _but_ paperwork. He’d always been good about keeping records, filing reports on time – well, usually – and he didn’t mind it, really, as long as the real police work, the street work, was there. Now it wasn’t. And Starsky wasn’t.

Hutch was having a hard time getting used to that. But he had no interest in working the streets without Starsky, with someone else as his partner. So when it became obvious that Starsky wasn’t coming back, that he couldn’t, that the shooting had stolen too much of him away, Hutch had taken the lieutenant’s exam. And passed with flying colors. He’d known he would; he took no particular pride in it.

He’d been doing the job for three months now, and his desk looked as if every sheet of paper that had crossed it in those three months was still there.

Minnie put her head around his door. “Coffee?”

Hutch smiled. Minnie had clucked over him like a mother hen ever since Gunther. “I’d love some.”

She brought in a steaming cup and set it before him. “Can’t have you falling asleep at your desk, honey. It might make the department look bad.”

He gave her a grateful look and took a hot, bracing sip.

“You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said, “and to answer your next question, he’s fine, too.”

Minnie grinned. “Always was.”

Hutch laughed. Minnie knew all about them, had for years, and didn’t give a damn. Hutch was past the point of caring what people thought, but still, it felt good to talk about Starsky to someone he knew wouldn’t make judgments.

“You get him a puppy to play with, yet?”

“We’re still looking.”

Minnie perched her admirable rear on the edge of the desk. “Have you tried the pound? Lots of beautiful dogs there, just waiting for someone to love them.”

Hutch sighed. “We went there. It didn’t work out very well.”

He’d gotten Starsky as far as the front door of the county animal shelter, close enough to hear the frenzied barking from inside, and then Starsky had turned pale and headed back to the car. “I can’t go in there,” he said, in response to Hutch’s bewildered questioning. “I can’t, Hutch. All those dogs, crying to get out…I’d take ‘em all. I couldn’t stand it.”

Hutch had made a donation to the shelter instead, to ease his conscience.

Minnie drummed her fingers on the desk. “You know, my ex-sister-in-law raised dogs, sheepdogs. She had a ranch out in the Valley. Tom and I used to go out there once in a while.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “What kind of sheepdogs?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know one dog from another. Black and white, most of them, not very big, but they put those sheep anywhere she told them to. It was quite a thing to see.”

“Border Collies?”

Minnie pointed a finger at him. “That’s it, that’s what she called them.”

“Border Collies,” Hutch said, thoughtfully. He’d seen one once, at a county fair his grandfather had taken him to. The dog was in an open field with half a dozen sheep scattered around. The shepherd whistled, and the dog rounded up all the sheep and moved them into a pen at the far end of the field. Hutch had been only six or seven at the time, but he remembered that, the way the shepherd hadn’t even said a word to the dog. He’d just whistled, once.

His grandfather had told him the dog was a Border Collie, and that they were the smartest dogs in the world.

He looked up at Minnie. “Does she still raise those dogs?

“I don’t know, I haven’t heard from her in years. After Tom and I split up, I didn’t keep in touch with his family.” She cocked her head. “But I could try to find out.”

Hutch took her hand and kissed it. “Minnie, you are a goddess.”

Minnie laughed. “Whatever you say, hot lips.”

 

*****

 

“Right there,” Starsky said. “Minnie gives good directions.” He pointed to a rusty sign reading _Ewe R Here Ranch – Lambs for Sale – Sheepdog Training_.

Hutch turned down a long, dirt driveway lined with eucalyptus. At the end was an unimposing one-story farmhouse. A white cat sat cleaning its paws on the porch railing.

“Remember,” Starsky said, “be cool and let me do the talking. I won’t let her push us into anything we don’t want. I’ll drive a hard bargain.”

“Sure,” Hutch said, and hid a smile. If Starsky didn’t grab the first puppy that licked his hand, Hutch would be amazed.

As the car slowed to a halt and Hutch cut the engine, an explosion of barking rose from somewhere behind the house. A fiftyish woman in faded jeans and a plaid shirt stepped onto the front porch, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She examined the two men through narrowed eyes, as though already having serious doubts about their suitability.

“Mrs. Tomlinson?” Starsky asked, with a winning smile. “We’re – ”

“Here to see the pups, are you? Well, come on, they’re in the barn.” She turned away abruptly, draping the dishtowel over her shoulder, and marched around the corner of the house.

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other before hastening after her. “I thought you said she was nice on the phone,” Starsky muttered.

“I didn’t say she was nice, I said _I_ was nice. She sounded like I’d interrupted her in the middle of shoveling manure or something.”

They followed the woman toward the bright red barn, the only spot of color amid the dusty surroundings. Beyond it lay a fenced meadow occupied by several grazing sheep. To one side sat a long, low building in which unseen dogs clamored.

“Kennel runs,” Mrs. Tomlinson said briefly, jerking her chin in the direction of the noise.

It was cool and dim inside the barn, and Hutch pushed his sunglasses up to rest on his hair. Yips and rustles emanated from the last stall on the right. Mrs. Tomlinson led them to that stall, and Starsky and Hutch peered over the door. Three small bodies wrestled and tumbled on a bed of straw.

“Three left out of six,” the woman said, “two boys and a girl, seven and a half weeks. All the others have gone to working homes.” She eyed the men. “I like for _all_ my pups to go to working homes. Border Collies don’t usually make good pets.”

Starsky looked at Hutch. Hutch raised his eyebrows.

“Uh, well, ma’am,” Starsky said, “I’m home a lot. So I’ll have a lot of time to spend with the puppy.”

Mrs. Tomlinson’s gaze didn’t waver.

Starsky cleared his throat. “I mean, _we’ll_ spend a lot of time with it, Hutch and me.” He gestured to Hutch. “My partner and me.”

The woman’s eyes shifted to Hutch, who looked back steadily. He’d told her on the phone that he and Starsky lived together. He wasn’t going to apologize for it, and if she didn’t like it….

When she said nothing, Starsky spoke again. “Would you mind bringing the puppies out? It’s kinda dark in here.”

Mrs. Tomlinson nodded. She unhooked the stall door, pulled it wide, and trilled, “Puppy, puppy, puppy!”

All three pups rushed her at once. She walked outside, still babbling in a high-pitched tone so different from her normal voice that Hutch almost laughed. The puppies tumbled after her, squeaking and yelping, and she ushered them into a wire pen set up just outside the barn door.

Hutch noted the delight in Starsky’s eyes. “They really listen to ya, don’t they?”

A small smile crossed the woman’s face. “They’re born listening,” she said. “You just have to be sure you tell ‘em the right things.”

Hutch knelt down and looked closely at the pups. All three were black with white markings on their paws, their faces, around their necks, and on the tips of their tails. One also had splashes of tan around its mouth, above its eyes, and on its legs.

“That’s the girl,” said Mrs. Tomlinson, pointing to the tan-marked pup. “She’s a tri-color, like her mama.”

“Can we see the mother?” Hutch asked.

Without a word, Mrs. Tomlinson strode off toward the kennel runs. Another fusillade of barking greeted her approach, which she silenced with a sharp, “That will do.” She unlatched one of the gates, releasing a larger version of the tri-color pup. The dog trotted toward the puppy pen, where she was greeted ecstatically by her offspring, who hurled themselves against the wire in a futile attempt to reach her.

“This is Bess,” Mrs. Tomlinson said, touching the dog’s head gently. “You can see she won’t have anything to do with them. They’re weaned, and she aims for them to stay that way.”

Indeed, Bess ignored the howling pups and sniffed interestedly at Starsky’s outstretched hand.

“She likes me,” Starsky said, scratching behind the dog’s ear. He smiled smugly at Hutch. “Smart girls always do.”

“Yeah, maybe she likes that meatball sandwich you had for lunch, Starsk.” Hutch squatted down and ruffled Bess’s fur.

Mrs. Tomlinson chuckled. “She likes people, but she’d rather be working sheep.”

Starsky glanced up at her. “Can we see her do it? I’ve never seen that.”

“Sure.” Mrs. Tomlinson smiled, and Hutch noticed that her initial wariness seemed to have worn off. She looked proud, as though happy to have a chance to show off her dog.

“Here, Bess,” she said softly. “Let’s go to work.”

At the words, Bess froze – eyes suddenly agleam, body quivering with eagerness – before she turned sharply and dashed off toward the pasture, ears pricked to their fullest, the white tip of her tail waving like a banner.

Beside him, Hutch heard Starsky’s indrawn breath. He turned to see his partner’s eyes locked on the wiry, tri-color dog streaking through the grass.

“She’s beautiful,” Starsky said. “I didn’t think these dogs looked like much at first, but….”

Hutch slid an arm around Starsky’s shoulders as they followed the woman and the dog. “Wait till you see her work, Starsk. You won’t believe it.”

And Starsky didn’t believe it. Hutch could see it in his eyes over the next quarter hour, as they stood at the fence while Mrs. Tomlinson gave barely audible commands and Bess zigzagged silently around the field, gathering the bawling sheep into a tight knot and moving them swiftly from side to side as her handler directed.

“Hutch,” Starsky finally said, as the demonstration ended and woman and dog made their way out of the meadow, “these dogs are perfect. They’re so smart they probably don’t even have to be trained. You could just say, Dog, go outside and play while I make a phone call, or Dog, take yourself for a walk, or Dog, go fetch me a beer, and they’d do it.”

“I can’t believe you’d make some poor dog fetch your beer, Starsk.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. That’s what I got you for, huh?”

 

*****

 

“How’d you know?” Hutch asked, as he steered the old Ford back up Mrs. Tomlinson’s driveway. He glanced into the rear view mirror. She was just stepping back into the house, and she didn’t look back.

Starsky barely heard him. “Look! Hutch, look, she’s hungry.” He gazed down at the black, white, and tan puppy on his lap, who was busily chewing the front of his jacket. “Hey, we gotta stop someplace and get some puppy chow. And a collar, we gotta get a collar. And some toys and stuff….” He trailed off as a flash of delayed panic hit him. “Shit, we don’t have anything, Hutch. We got a baby, and we don’t have any baby stuff. We’re not prepared – how’d I know what?”

Hutch glanced at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

“You said, how’d I know?”

“Oh, yeah. How’d you know which one you wanted? Both the others played with us more.”

Starsky held the puppy up to eye level and smiled at her. She squirmed, apparently impatient to get back to her jacket-shredding. “I dunno, I just like girls, I guess.”

Hutch gave Starsky’s knee a quick squeeze before turning onto the main road. “You like boys, too.”

“Don’t worry, you can still be my bitch.”

“Funny. You up to walking back to town?”

Starsky grinned. “Her name’s Spot.”

“Spot?”

“Spot.”

“Starsk, she doesn’t have any spots.”

“So? Remember that spotted dog that time, the one that saved our asses?”

“That Dalmatian? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, I figure the least we can do to honor that fine animal is to name our own dog after him.”

Hutch nodded. “That was a nice dog, all right.”

Starsky put his face close to the puppy’s and made kissy noises. “Hey, little Spot. Hey there, baby.”

The puppy yipped.

“Actually,” Starsky said, “I lied.” He reached over and tapped the back of Hutch’s head with a finger. “I’m naming her after that, right there. Little bald spot.”

Hutch caught the offending hand and kissed it. “You’re pushing it, partner. You’re really pushing it.”

They got most of the way home before the puppy wet Starsky’s lap.


End file.
